Barbara Greer (43 page)

‘How in the world did it happen?'

‘I don't know. That's all she said. Drowned in a boat.'

‘She apparently tried to call me last night to tell me and wasn't able to reach me.'

‘I'm sure, sir, that she wanted you to be notified first thing.'

‘Well, I'll call her, Flora. And I'd better give you my number here in case you need it.'

‘Your number?'

‘It's Bayswater 0170. Have you got that? That's where you can reach me in London.'

‘What was that number again?'

‘Bayswater 0170,' Carson said.

‘Let me get a pencil and some paper.' Flora was gone for a long time; when she returned, she said, ‘Now what was that number?'

He repeated it several more times before she had it. Then he said, ‘Thanks, Flora. Give my love to the boys.'

‘How's the weather over there?'

‘Very nice.'

‘You sound so
close
, Mr. Greer! Like you were in the next room. I've never talked to London, England before.'

‘Well, good-bye, Flora.'

‘Good-bye, Mr. Greer!'

He sat for a moment, thinking about Barney. Drowned in a boat, Flora had said, whatever that meant. It was sad, shocking news, of course, but its effect on him was a strange one. He had never, for some reason, known Barney Callahan well. He had been with him often enough but now, having just heard of Barney Callahan's death, he couldn't remember ever having talked to Barney, or anything that Barney had ever said to him. They must have talked, of course, but what about? It was not that Carson had disliked Barney, really, nor had Carson really liked him, either. It almost seemed to him now as though he had, for several years, rather ignored Barney, and he wondered why this had been. Barbara seldom mentioned him. It was as if Barney had floated across a portion of their lives and, now, had floated out of it. The surface behind his path was smooth and unrippled. Drowned in a boat. How very strange because, now that he tried to picture Barney Callahan's face, he couldn't. What had he looked like? Even Carson's recollection of his face was blurred and watery—submerged. To Carson, Barney Callahan had seemed drowned for a long time.

It was nearly two hours before Preston's car drove into the driveway again. Edith had been lying, stretched out, on the library sofa, waiting for him. Her head had begun aching horribly and Emily had brought her an ice pack. When she heard him drive in, she tossed the ice pack aside, jumped up and ran to the door to meet him. ‘Well?' she asked tensely. ‘Did you see Daniels? What did he say?'

He looked very tired. ‘I saw him,' he said. ‘I talked to him. I think it's going to be all right, Edith.'

‘
Think?
Don't you know?'

‘He didn't promise anything. He hadn't seen the woman's story yet. But he said he'd look it over very carefully, every detail.'

‘But he didn't give you any assurance?'

‘I think he understood. I said—look, Tom, it's my daughter, and—well, never mind what I said. He was very nice. He told me I shouldn't worry.'

‘Shouldn't
worry!
That's easy for him to say!'

‘Edith,' he said, ‘I'm very tired. I want to lie down. I want to be alone for a while …'

‘Oh,
Preston!
' she cried.

And so, at five o'clock, when the evening paper was due to arrive, she was waiting for it. When at last it was delivered, she seized it, took it into the library, and began tearing open the pages, looking quickly at each. On the next-to-last page, there was a small, rather blurred photograph of Barney, and under it were the words:

BERNARD J. CALLAHAN, 28,

DROWNED IN BOATING ACCIDENT

Wife a Member of Noted

Burketown Family

And there followed a tasteful and brief obituary, and a note that the funeral services would be held on Wednesday.

There was nothing else.

Edith ran quickly with the newspaper to her husband's room. She knelt on the floor beside him. ‘Oh, my darling!' she said. ‘You're so wonderful … so wonderful.' She wept. ‘I love you so!' she said.

A little later, Nancy Rafferty came down the stairs looking trim in her suit and gloves, carrying her bag.

‘Oh, Mrs. Woodcock!' she said. She put her arms around Edith's shoulders and pressed her hair against Edith's cheek. ‘Oh, Mrs. Woodcock,' she said, ‘I must go. I can get the eight-thirty train out of Penn Station. I thought for a while that if I stayed I might be some help—but I'm only in the way. It's the best thing for me to do, Mrs. Woodcock. Will you forgive me for running off like this? It's just that I'm no help, no help at all …'

‘There, there, Nancy,' Edith said comfortingly. ‘You've been an enormous help, my dear, an enormous help. And I'm terribly grateful.'

‘But I've got to go. I'd love to be able to stay—for the services and everything. But I'm simply not up to it!'

‘Of course, of course,' Edith said. ‘I understand perfectly. It's as you think best, Nancy, as you think best.'

‘You're always so kind and wonderful!'

‘You're like our own daughter.'

They kissed.

Then Nancy stepped back, opened her purse, and dabbed at her moist eyes with her handkerchief. She blew her nose. ‘I've got you all lipsticky,' she said.

‘And I you!' Edith smiled. They dabbed at each other. ‘Did you say good-bye to Barbara?'

‘Yes. Just now. Not to Peggy, though. I didn't want to disturb her.'

‘Of course. Will Barbara be coming down for some supper do you think?'

‘Oh, I think she'd prefer to have it on a tray,' Nancy said. ‘Though I don't think she'll feel like eating.'

‘Of course.'

‘And do say good-bye to Peggy and to Mr. Woodcock for me—will you? And tell them how terribly sorry I am. And explain.'

‘Of course I will.'

‘And thank you—thank you for everything, Mrs. Woodcock.'

‘It's just a shame—just a shame that your visit couldn't have been a happier one,' Edith said. ‘But you'll come again.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘I shall insist you do!'

‘You're so wonderful … And I—I feel so helpless. So useless.'

‘There, there! Now, tell me, Nancy, what are you going to do?'

‘You mean after I get back to Philadelphia?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well,' Nancy said, more brightly, ‘actually I've been thinking about it, just today. I'm no nurse—I've learned that. In fact, I don't know what I am! But I thought, I've got a little money saved up. I thought I might go to Europe—for six months, or maybe a year. I've never been, you know, and I thought for six months or a year I might just travel around, see the things I've always wanted to see, and learn things—new languages, new people, and sort of get things straight in my life again. Do you think that's a good idea?'

‘Oh, I do, Nancy. I approve, most definitely!'

‘Well, I may do it or I may not. Who knows? I may get married. There's a doctor, in Philadelphia—but who knows? The nice thing about life is it's unpredictable, isn't it? And you never can tell …' She started toward the door.

‘Do you want John to drive you?'

‘I've called a taxi. It'll be here any minute. Thank you, anyway. Oh, one thing before I forget. Barbara says she doesn't want to call Carson—doesn't want to talk to him. Right now, that is. But I think she should—or someone should. Someone should tell him what's happened before he hears about it from somewhere else. Don't you think Barbara ought to let him know—in a letter, perhaps?' She hesitated. ‘A letter can be calmer—you can plan what you say.'

‘Yes,' Edith said. ‘Yes, yes.'

‘Telling him—just about the accident. Not about the circumstances, you know—'

‘Yes,' Edith said quickly. ‘I agree.'

‘I think we understand each other,' Nancy said easily.

‘I suppose we do,' Edith said. ‘It's funny. My problem has always been—forgetting that my children are grown up.'

‘We both love Barbara,' Nancy said. ‘We both want her to be happy.'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, once again—' she opened the door. ‘Oh, here comes my taxi,' she said. ‘Well, good-bye, Mrs. Woodcock and thank you for ever!'

‘Good-bye, Nancy, dear.'

They brushed lips again, very quickly.

‘Have a wonderful trip to Europe,' Edith said.

‘Oh, I will,' Nancy said, ‘if I go! Don't ever worry about me. I always seem to survive. Good-bye!'

‘Good-bye.'

Nancy waved airily, blew a last kiss, turned and ran down the steps toward the taxi.

Edith felt relieved, somehow, as she walked back into the house and began turning on lamps. It was beginning to get dark. It had been a terrible day, the worst in her life, though perhaps the worst of it was over. She thought: Death always inflicts its severest blows upon the living. How unfair! And then she almost smiled, realising that it was not yet her turn to know what blows death inflicted upon the dead. In the midst of life, she thought, we are in the midst of death. Each death around us brings us inexorably closer to our own. Thank goodness there was work to do. There were two days ahead to get through. If she could get through Wednesday, she would be all right. Just tomorrow and Wednesday, and after that she would see to it somehow that all of them got off to a fresh start. All of them would begin again, they would have family picnics again, the best part of the summer still lay ahead of them, and the best part of their lives. Oh, yes.

No day could ever be as bad as today. There was comfort in that. She turned on more lamps in the library and stripped off, with her fingers, a few dying heads of roses in the vase. Then she went upstairs to see how many of her family she could gather for supper.

But on Tuesday, Liz Gage had the last word. Her story never appeared in the
Eagle
, but, with journalistic ingenuity, she had managed to peddle it elsewhere. One of the New York morning tabloids picked it up. It was not on the front page, nor on the second, nor on the third. But it was there, and prominent enough, with the headline:

WHICH HEIRESS WAS HE AFTER?

Was Ex-Milkman Paddling for Midnight Martini

with Millionaire's Married Daughter?

Tom Daniels saw it and fired her.

Woody saw it very early in the morning when, weary and a day late, he got back to his apartment from Lime Rock. He immediately went downstairs, got in his car, and drove to the farm.

His idea had been to break it to them gently—as gently as possible. But when he got there, the news had already reached them.

21

Peggy said, ‘The Callahans are here. Can you come down?'

‘Do they want to see me?' Barbara asked.

Peggy stepped into the room and pulled the door gently closed behind her. ‘They haven't asked to see you, no,' she said. ‘But I thought it would be a good idea. And it would be a tremendous help to me, Barb.'

‘All right,' she said. She sat up. ‘Just give me a few minutes.'

She went to her dressing table and sat down at the little bench. Before her stood bottles, jars and tubes, extravagantly designed and coloured, sensuously named, creating—even though they were capped and stoppered—a faint, persistent fragrance in the air. She reached for her brush.

Peggy came and stood beside her. On the glass top of the dressing table there was a little pile of bobby pins, and slowly, with her fingertips, Peggy began arranging these. First she placed the pins in the little marching row, like soldiers, then she destroyed this pattern and began arranging the pins in a series of little box shapes, small square O's. She concentrated on this. Then she said, ‘I was premature. I was an idiot to think that I could do anything to shape up the company at this point. It's just too early. I still think we can do it some day, though—we're going go have to. You and I will have to do it. We'll have to wait until the trust comes to us and then see what we can do. My mistake was being impatient. And I think I was wrong to hang my hopes on Barney. He was the wrong kind of person. His heart wasn't in it. I should have known.'

Barbara said nothing. She continued brushing her hair.

‘We'll form a sort of partnership,' Peggy said. ‘You and I—some day. That's the best thing. You and I understand each other, after all.' She finished the final square with the pins. Then she put her hand on Barbara's shoulder. ‘Barb,' she said, ‘May I tell you one thing?'

‘Yes,' Barbara said. ‘What is it?'

‘Barbara—I want you to know—whatever is said, whatever this stupid gossip is, I don't believe it.'

Barbara sat motionless, her brush in her hand, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

‘I couldn't believe it,' Peggy said. ‘I could never believe it. Do you understand? If there's an explanation—even if there is an explanation—I really don't care what it is, because I know that it's a perfectly good, perfectly sensible explanation. I'd never, not for a single moment, think that there could have been anything between you and Barney. Because there couldn't have been. I knew him too well, and I know you too well, to think that any such thing could be possible. And—well, that's the only thing. That's all I want you to know.' Then Peggy paused and placed one polished fingertip in the exact centre of one of her O's. ‘Of course,' she said, ‘there must have been someone there, in the guesthouse. But who that person was,' she added, ‘is something we'll never know, isn't it?'

After a moment, Barbara said, ‘Peggy—I—'

No,' Peggy said. ‘No, I don't want to hear anything. The subject is closed. We'll never discuss it again.' She reached for a tube of lipstick and handed it to Barbara. ‘Here—put some of this on.' She smiled. ‘Now, I want us both to go down and talk to the Callahans together. We'll show them a united front, the good old Woodcock united front! Put on lipstick and we'll go down.' She dropped the tube in Barbara's outstretched hand.